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hum--hallelujah · 10 months

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don't want to kill time like it doesn't matter - 3.5k words, (platonic) funkobra hurt/comfort

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Ghoul is actually younger than Kobra. They always forget it though.

At least, they usually do.

Kobra's stopped shooting upright and reaching for his blaster whenever someone wakes him up at night. Stopped two years ago, honestly, when him and Ghoul started sharing a room. That was a collective decision that is very much not discussed. It left the old office as a perfect room for the Girl, in the end. Between Ghoulie and Girlie, the former of whom has wild, sleepless tendencies and the latter liking to scramble her way into bed with somebody else every other night of the week, Kobra's knee-jerk reaction has become more of a lack of reaction.

"Yo," hisses a pitchy voice. It's dead daylight, the heat of the day. This is the time of the year when you sleep while the sun's up, wait until the darkness falls to do anything or else it's too miserable or too dangerous. "Kobes."

Kobra utters a verbose "Hrrmngg?" and rolls over. He cracks an eye open to see Ghoul standing at the end of his bed. If it hadn't been light out, he'd be doing a good job of living up to his name. His hands are shaking, but when aren't they?

"You good, man?" Kobra asks groggily. He's half awake, half asleep, drifting in between the two states of being. Ghoul is shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. It makes the floor creak. It makes him look even smaller than he is. "Ghoulie?" He mumbles again when he gets no reply.

Ghoul makes a noncommittal half-whispered sound. "Wanna go for a joyride?" He asks instead of an answer.

Kobra blinks himself more fully awake and pushes up on one elbow. "Mirage or the 'Am?"

Ghoulie shrugs. Won't meet his eyes. Oh shit, that's not good. Something's got him worked up. It's too late for this. This is why they share a room now. They didn't used to, but Kobra refuses to let him sleep alone anymore. Kobra knows how he got that wicked scar that runs from the corner of his mouth nearly to his eye.

"Either," Ghoul says. "Doesn't matter much to me."

"Mirage," Kobra decides. He'll never say no to a late-night joyride. Not this kind. Party'll have his neck for sneaking out on the bike without letting anyone know, but the 'Am is too conspicuous when strange crews are out and from the look of him, riding double on the motorcycle will be good for Ghoul.

It's still too hot to be out. But going for a spin won't take too much exertion, getting to someplace with shade, so long as it's away from here, won't take too long. Ghoul's gonna get sunscorched. Maybe that's the point. While Kobra covers up with his jacket, Ghoul is still in the loose, half-covering clothes he sleeps in.

The sun glints painfully off the sand when they climb quietly out the window. No reason trying to get past Party when they've got an exit right here. Ghoul clambers out first with a probably accidental but surprisingly graceful roll and then flinches, violently, when Kobra jacket catches on what's left of the glass in the window and he tumbles haphazardly to the ground. They both hold still for a long dozen seconds, Kobra staring at the diner wall and straining to tell if anyone heard them, and Ghoul staring at Kobra and shaking.

When Party doesn't come along, eyes glinting with annoyed amusement, and yell at them for sneaking out, Kobra sits up and checks the hem of his jacket where it caught on the sharp edge. "Great," he mutters when he sees the tear in the lining. He'll have to sew that back together later. "Ghoul, you good?"

Ghoul shrugs and stands up. "Aren't I always?"

"No."

They stare at each other for a few seconds while Kobra rubs his palms together to clear the sand off them and reaches into his pocket for his gloves. "You're wearing a helmet," he says flatly.

Ghoul rolls his eyes and sneers. It crinkles the scar running up his face. "No way."

"Fine." Kobra doesn't push. Half the time he doesn't even wear his helmet. He's the driver. He'll keep them safe. It was worth a try, though. "Come on."

The heavy bay door of the garage makes too much noise to open without being caught. They slip in the side door and Kobra brings Mirage carefully back through it. He wears a helmet this time. Ghoul stands and waits, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, while Kobra starts the bike and, out of habit, does a couple checks.

"You ready?" Kobra says, with the visor of his helmet flipped up.

Ghoul grins, but it's lacking in heart. So often, Kobra thinks he's not all there. So often, Kobra thinks this is his best friend. "Born that way," he replies.

"Come on then," Kobra says and nods for Ghoul to get on the bike with him. "Hey, hey. Hey, Ghoulie-" he says, when Ghoul is standing right at his shoulder, about to throw a leg over Mirage and climb on. "You okay?" He asks again, because he needs to know how safe any of this is.

Ghoul doesn't respond. Just settles himself behind Kobra and wraps his arms, tight, around Kobra's middle. Kobra stays there a second, until he's sure Ghoul's grip is solid, so that he can feel Ghoul breathing against his back, before he kicks off. He doesn't care if Party and Jet wake up now, they won't catch them. The bike's tires kick up a fountain of sand as he spins a loop, leaning into the turn until Mirage tilts close enough to the ground that Kobra could touch the sand if he reached out. Ghoul asked for a joyride. This is that.

"What the hell, man?!" Ghoul yells over Kobra's shoulder, muffled by the engine noise and his helmet. Kobra feels Ghoul's hands grab at the fabric of his shirt as he pulls around the first turn, bringing them around the back of a sand dune at full speed.

"Trust me?" Kobra shouts back. He's getting into it now, relaxing into each wide, showy swerve and fishtail. He slows down just a bit when he can feel Ghoul's fingernails start to bite into his skin. It makes him edgy when Ghoul is like this.

Ghoul sniffs sharply. "Well, yeah, but I've seen you crash out enough times at the track-"

"Aw, shut up," Kobra snaps back, without venom. Ghoul's his mechanic. He's seen his best wins and worst losses. "Where you wanna go?" He asks, after a few random turns, just drifting around in the sand. Ghoul is quiet. Kobra reaches back with one hand and smacks him on the leg after awhile. "Ghoulie, where we goin'?"

"I'm thinki-" Ghoul cuts himself off and when he speaks again his voice is flat and so quiet Kobra has to strain to hear him. "Turn right up here."

There's the remains of a road cutting across their path and Kobra hops Mirage up onto it, swings right and follows the pavement. Ghoul's grip around his chest has loosened, but Kobra can feel the fast, shallow rhythm of his breathing and the shaking of his hands even still. The road goes on for ages, long enough that it starts to feel infinite. This must have been a highway, back before the wars and BL/ind. At some point, Ghoul leans forward and puts his forehead against the back of Kobra's neck. Kobra can feel him pressed just below where his helmet sits.

"Get off at this turn," Ghoul mumbles suddenly, but not soon enough because Kobra completely overshoots the exit. He flips around the empty lanes of the highway, admittedly showing off mostly just to make himself feel better.

The group of buildings along the former highway off-ramp isn't really a ghost town. It's a cluster of old stores and restaurants, like the diner but mass produced, and down at the end is an ancient truck stop and gas station. Kobra slows the bike to a crawl as they drive down the street, struck with an eerie sense of deja vu. He's been here before. They both have.

He pulls over and stops in the middle of the road, beside what used to be a coffee store. Coffee is usually made in the form of compressed, dried out shots now, called Motor Juice in the Zones when rehydrated. They don't have coffeeshops in the City. They have prescriptions.

Ghoul is off the bike and Kobra's back suddenly cold even under the heat of the sun before Mirage even comes to a full stop. "Ghoul-" Kobra snaps, angry for reasons he can't even say and unsettled in ways he doesn't want to. This is a ghost town. Just not in the normal way. "Ghoul. What are you-"

But Ghoul is walking away, his back to Kobra and the bike as he moves toward the gas station as if it's a magnet and he's the blade of a knife, trembling so hard with the pull that it might break. Kobra hesitates, then swings his leg over Mirage and bumps out the kickstand. Ghoul is standing stock still, or as still as he can, on the faded pavement of the gas station parking lot. Kobra's glad it's faded. He doesn't want to see the bloodstains.

Ghoul looks small as he approaches, absolutely miniscule. He's got his arms wrapped tight around himself and Kobra can hear the harshness of his breathing even from several strides away. He doesn't want to get too close too fast. Ghoul's enough like a wild animal that it could turn out badly, and Kobra for once really doesn't want to fight him today. Not out here, at least.

They're within two years of each other, Kobra and Ghoul. They usually forget they're not the same age. But right now Ghoul looks so small and so, so young and Kobra doesn't know what to do.

"Gh- Ghoul. Ghoulie." Kobra calls carefully, stumbling over his tongue. He clamps his teeth together, takes a deep breath. "Ghoul."

Ghoul doesn't turn, doesn't look away from the door into the gas station he'd been found in, back when Kobra and Poison and Jet were a crew of three and Ghoul'd been even more feral than he is now. The gas station where Ghoul watched his entire family die and he was helpless to do anything about it. He still thinks he hadn't done enough. Kobra knows that. Ghoul always thinks he didn't do enough. That one kid with a blaster and wild eyes could take down a full squad of Dracs and two Crows.

Kobra doesn't know how to tell him that if he'd tried, he would be dead too. Kobra doesn't know how to tell him he's glad he didn't. When it comes down to it most, Kobra finds he can't speak.

"Ghoulie," he says again. "Hey. Hey." He moves closer, pulls off the helmet he'd almost forgotten he still has on. "Ghoul," he tries, one more time, as gently as he knows how even though it's not that gentle. He's never been good at this. Some of the scars scattered across Ghoul's body are from him. But Kobra had stitched up Ghoul's face and he's not going to give up now.

Ghoul finally turns and Kobra breathes a sigh of relief. Just a response. Proof of life even though he's still standing. And then Ghoul steps toward him and suddenly he's right there, shaking but otherwise just as eerily still as this entire place, like he's trapped in frozen time just like the rest of it, and he collides with Kobra's chest in a way that's both surprising and yet entirely expected.

"Oh." Kobra drops his helmet, dangling from one hand, and his arms hover uncertainly in the air for a moment before he carefully closes them around Ghoul. "Oh. Okay. Okay." He says quietly, startled, but not really. He'd felt the way Ghoul was holding onto him as they rode Mirage all the way out here.

Ghoul unfolds his arms from around himself and grabs onto the unzipped sides of Kobra's jacket. He doesn't cry, not out loud at least. He's just shaking, so much, and so, so small. Kobra's not good with words. He's even worse with them under pressure. Anything Jet or Party could say to make it better, that kind of stuff gets stuck on his tongue when Kobra tries to say it. So he doesn't. He just holds on.

"You plan on coming here?" Kobra asks eventually, even though he has a feeling the answer is no. Unless it's an engine or a bomb, Ghoul never really plans on much. Ghoul shakes his head, hair scrubbing against Kobra's shoulder and neck where his head's pressed. "You wanna... y'wanna go inside?" He asks then, against his better judgment. But then again, he's never been known for that, has he.

Ghoul tenses, but it momentarily stops the shaking. "Can we?"

Kobra huffs. "Nobody stoppin' us, and even if there were, we'd do it anyway, wouldn't we?"

Ghoul pries his fingers from their hold on Kobra's jacket and turns back toward the station. "Should we?"

"Dunno." Part of him thinks it might help. Part of him remembers exactly what happened the last time they were here. It's the Killjoy way to call death ghosting. It means some part of you lives on even when you're gone. There's a lot of ghosts in this pavement. "It's your-"

He can't think of what word goes there. Choice. Past. Grief. Place. So he stops talking. He shrugs, bends to pick up his helmet. "I can." He sucks a breath through his teeth. He's going to say it again. "I can... I can go with you. If you," he shrugs one shoulder again. "If you, uh, want to. I'm not- I'm not trying to force you," he adds, like it needs to be said. "It's your... yours."

Because that's all that really can be said. This place, the place that made Fun Ghoul what he is. The journey, however brief, that brought them here. Even, kinda, Kobra himself. It's all for Ghoul, here and now. Kobra drove, but he's just along for the ride. Weird how that happens.

Ghoul steps toward the station. Magnetism, again. And Kobra follows, because how could he not. He feels sick at the though of letting his friend go in that place alone.

The doors are gone. Shot out years ago. It looks to Kobra exactly as it did back then, but Ghoul probably remembers better. There are shelves toppled and glass and plastic broken all over the floor. Whatever hasn't been scavenged is broken and shattered. Ghoul walks toward the back of the store, the corner that's not so much a mess. Kobra stays back a bit, trying to give his friend space.

It's where they found Ghoul. Or, where Pois had found him. Ghoul was half in shock, terrified and scarred and fighting, and Party was the first one of their then three-strong group to notice the dark shape watching them hopelessly trawl the carnage for any survivors. It took Pois physically restraining the much smaller kid to keep Ghoul from going for all of their throats.

Kobra has a lot of bad memories of Ghoul. None are as bad as remembering the way he'd screamed when they first met.

"Y'okay?" Kobra asks after a while.

Ghoul has his moments. They all do. Sometimes, you wake up bad in the night and it's hard to pick yourself up. Sometimes you just gotta hit the bottom before you even can. But Ghoul's a fighter. "Yeah," he says, walking back and forth between fallen shelves once stocked with food and stupid trinkets. He crouches to pick up the shattered remnants of something once made of colorful glass and when he looks back over his shoulder at Kobra, he doesn't seem quite as small.

"'M sorry," Kobra mumbles, not knowing what to say now. Somehow, the shaking and the touch are so much easier than having to talk about it. He's never been the talker. That's Party. And he knows his brother regrets not getting there — here — sooner that day, but there's a sick, selfish part of Kobra that's too glad to have Ghoul to want anything different. But really, it's all he can say. If there's remnants of bones that haven't been carried away by carrion-eaters, he doesn't want to see it.

Ghoul slowly stands up from his spot on the floor, staring intently at the broken knick-knack in his palm. It might have been a glass teddy bear, once, something a parent might grab up for a child waiting at home. It's partially shattered, though. Half of its cartoonish smiling face is gone. The heart shape it once held in its paws is cracked down the middle. Kobra isn't great with metaphors, but this is pretty fucking obvious.

"I didn't save them," Ghoul says quietly, his voice grating through the charged, silent air. "I didn't save her."

Something clicks into place. They all know that the crew he lost was Ghoul's real actual biological family. He's a sandpup. He was born and raised in the Zones. He doesn't talk about it much. Kobra's shocked he even came back here, let alone with anyone else. Ghoul doesn't talk about his family, but they've all figured for a while that he had a sibling. You can see it in how he treats the Girl.

"Your sister," Kobra says. It doesn't sound like so much of a question when he says it out loud, but he knows Ghoul will understand it as one.

Ghoul nods. "Yeah." He steps over some toppled displays, sun-bleached ads that used to be bright colored, and slips the shiny piece of broken glass into one of Kobra's pockets since he doesn't have any of his own. Kobra can already see the sunburn forming on his friend's shoulders and the tops of his knees. "She was like, eight."

That's all the more he says about it, but Kobra slips his hand into the pocket and runs his fingers over the broken glass toy still warm from Ghoul's hands, and hears the years of grief and bitterness in the few words. Ghoul's more talky than he is, but he's cagey, too. Kobra can hear him, though. He gets it. Doesn't mean he knows what to say, though.

"Shit," he spits. He wants to say I'm sorry again, but that feels fuckin cheap. He wants to say stop beating yourself up about it, but that sounds even stupider. "Fuck." Sometimes that's all he can say.

"Yeah," Ghoul replies. "Fuckin shit."

"Exactly," Kobra agrees, fiercely relieved that Ghoul gets all the shit he's trying to say. "Hey, uh. Y'know I'm-" He stumbles over the words, cringes at himself for the inability to get past a stupid two-letter word. "I'm glad I know you." He manages, as selfish as it sounds standing here in the ghosted wreckage where Ghoul's family was killed. But if that hadn't happened, they wouldn't be here now. They wouldn't be friends. And Kobra needs Ghoul to know he's glad that any suicide run to save his family failed. The pain sucks, but he's grateful for the outcome. He hopes Ghoul can understand that.

Ghoul doesn't reply. His acid green eyes bore straight into Kobra's for a few seconds while Kobra's heart hammers in his chest. Then he kicks at some dust and looks at the floor and shrugs. "Let's go, man. I don't wanna stay here."

"M'kay."

Kobra's almost tempted to reach out as they walk back out into the glaring sun, grab onto Ghoul like he's a ghost, too, and the light might evaporate him. But he doesn't. He can't.

He thinks the feeling of Ghoul hanging onto him as he steers Mirage away, back up the ramp to the road they came down in the first place, will make him feel better. It doesn't. Ghoul holds on much looser than he had on the way here, and it makes Kobra nervous. He wonders if he should have made him wear a helmet, and steers more carefully around the turns.

And then Ghoul adjusts his seat and throws one arm up over Kobra's shoulder, loosely hooking around his neck. He leans up forward and shouts, "C'mon, Kobes, let's play with it!" Like he's itching for the risk that a couple hours ago had had him holding on for dear life. Kobra's used to thinking his best friend isn't all there. But he's also familiar with the times he is. Sometimes, he forgets they're not the same age because Ghoul is so larger than life.

He tips his head to the side in acknowledgement, and punches the throttle. He even pulls a couple of tight, quick loops. He can't slide on the pavement the way he would on sand, but he can catch a little air when there's a thermal bump in the highway. Ghoul clutches onto him, but it's not scared. Something's cleared up in the gas station. Maybe it was closure. Hell if Kobra knows.

When they pull Mirage off the highway and the diner finally comes back into view, just a small glint of signage, Kobra slows his pace and can feel Ghoul sigh more than he can hear it. His friend's arms stay firmly around him. "Hey, Kobes?" Ghoul says, just barely loud enough to be heard over the engine.

"Yeah?" Kobra says, a bit louder to be heard past his helmet.

Ghoul hesitates, then says in a rush, "I'm glad I know you too. Like, really glad." And then he squeezes Kobra a little tighter for just a second and Kobra can't even say anything in reply. It's been a long night at the wrong time of day. And they're almost home.

#yes I know kobra is doing that annoying ''r u ok'' thing very repetitively he's like me he repeats himself A LOT it's ok. we still love him #I cannot express this enough. kobra has a stutter. literally sometimes the only word that will come out is just. F bomb.#the others have gotten very good at translating him skskskddkfj #btw wrt kobra's speech patterns just know I'm cutting WAY back on the amount of repeating I do irl #like I'm giving him my (mild) stutter but cutting down the repetitions by a lot bc it looks weird on paper #so whenever he's repeating himself and stammering? yeah it's a lot more like a scratched CD than how I typed it out #in my head it's like SUPER noticeable. like everyone knows this happens and that sometimes he has to stop and be quiet #and take a minute before he can get on with what he's saying. it's just a thing #ok now that I'm done rambling about kobra kid having a stutter- :)#btw they're like 16 and 17 here. they are children trying to navigate these very big emotions and I love them so so dearly #next time I need to emotionally or physically hurt kobra skfjfnskdn I keep going after poor ghoul #ok I think that's all I have to say for now #she speaks!#she writes!#danger days #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #danger days: the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #ttlotfk #kobra kid #fun ghoul #this isn't really funkobra just bc I don't actually ship ANYONE here skskfjdghkdjgfkd #I'm much more compelled by platonic relationships that are kinda the Secret Third Thing than I am by romance. so. yeah

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praetorqueenreyna · 6 months

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Welcome to the PQR gift giving extravaganza!!! I wrote some fics for some of my fandom friends as part of a gift exchange; expect a fic (almost) every day for the next week! This first one is for @goforth-ladymidnight, my co-runner for Tamlin Week and one of my favorite people ever!! She has spoiled me with a Tamlin/Lucien fic, which you should definitely check out! Briar/Tamlin is one of her favorite ships, so hopefully I did it justice!

Read here on AO3, or continue reading below.

Briar’s father practically kicked her out of the shop. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” she asked, even as she was halfway out the door.

“Yes yes, I’m not that old,” he snapped with false irritability. “You go enjoy yourself, and I mean it.” He closed the door to his shop behind her, and she could hear the dramatic thunk of the lock falling into place. She shook her head and grinned to herself. Normally she helped her father clean up and close his shop, ever since his back had started seizing up. But he knew how much she loved the local harvest festival, and was forcing her to go.

On the way to the village square, she combed her fingers through her thick hair. She frowned at the blood caked under her fingernails and stopped at the side of the river to thoroughly scrub her hands before continuing. Music and the chatter of joyful voices reached her long before the festival was in sight. The square was beautifully decorated with dried vegetation, stalks of wheat, and gourds. Vendors lined the edges of the square, offering food and drink and trinkets. The harvest festival was Briar’s favorite time of the year. Especially now that her father was relying on her more and more, and she had less time to socialize.

As she approached one of the stands, the large man ladling out cups of steaming hot apple cider caught sight of her. His face split into a massive grin. “Little rose! Long time no see!”

“Hello Ric,” Briar greeted. She had spent much of her childhood running around the orchard that Ricaud owned with his wife. “How’s Benji?”

Ric rumbled with laughter. “Bigger and feistier than ever. Can barely keep him out of the damn trees.” However much he complained, Ric clearly adored his son. He passed her an earthenware mug full of the fragrant cider, waving her away as she reached for her money pouch. “Don’t even think about it. Just glad to see you out and about.”

It was true, Briar had not been out much since her mother had passed several years before. She tired of the pitying glances from the others, the way they treated her like a fragile piece of glass. Not to mention her father had been overwhelmed by grief and work, and needed her in his shop to keep a roof over their heads. This was one of the reasons she liked Ric so much. He didn’t talk down to her or murmur about what a poor young thing she was. He treated her as he always had.

Briar wandered through the festival, taking in the merry atmosphere with the mug cradled between her hands. She spent a few minutes at a glassblowing booth, where an apprentice was creating a sculpture for an audience. Entranced, she marveled at how the apprentice manipulated the molten glass as if it were clay, pulling and stretching and turning it until a glorious swan was cooling in front of him. The apprentice caught her eye and smiled as though greeting an old friend. A moment later, Briar realized that she did recognize him, though she couldn’t recall his name. They were the same age and had grown up in the village together, part of a group of children that ran and played with little adult supervision. She hadn’t seen him in ages. The reminder of her isolation made her wistful, and she left the booth before he could try to talk to her.

She made her way towards the center of the square. A ragtag group of musicians was playing together, a rollicking cacophony of instruments and foot stomping. A small group had started dancing in front of the musicians. Briar settled herself at the edge of the crowd, content to simply observe. Most of the musicians were somewhat familiar to her, but she had never seen the fiddle player before. He was tall and dressed plainly, though even from a distance Briar could tell that his clothing was high quality and well made. His long blond hair, woven through with flowers, flowed loosely around his shoulders. Although he played along with the other musicians, his talent far exceeded theirs. He played the fiddle like it was an extension of himself, the bow dancing across the strings in an exquisite tune.

Her attention was dragged away from the fiddle player by a tap on the shoulder. The glassblower's apprentice, having extricated himself from his booth, held out a hand in a silent request. There was nothing lascivious in his gaze, just friendly warmth and quiet confidence. Briar accepted his hand and allowed him to twirl her into the growing crowd of dancers. It soon became clear that neither of them had any knack for dancing, which sent them both giggling. They struggled through the song, jumping and kicking in a ridiculous manner. The song ended and they let go of each other’s hands to applaud. Briar was red and breathless, feeling lighter than she had in ages. She looked up at the makeshift stage to find that the fiddle player was staring at her. When he caught her looking, he shyly looked away. Bemused, Briar turned down the offer of another dance and walked away to enjoy the rest of the festival.

********************

Later, Briar was sitting on a bench at the edge of the festivities. It had been a joy to talk to so many people she hadn’t seen outside of the shop in a long time, but her feet hurt and her throat was sore. She had needed a break. It was well and truly dark now, and torches and bonfires were scattered across the square. Soon she would need to creep in closer to the fire to warm up, but for now she was content to wait in the darkness.

“Mind if I join you?” The fiddle player was standing next to her, having approached so silently he might as well have materialized out of thin air. Startled, Briar nodded her head in assent. The musician slid onto the bench next to her with preternatural grace, settling his long limbs in a pose worthy of portraiture. “I’m Tamlin.”

“Briar,” she introduced herself. “Do you live in town?”

“No, just visiting.” Tamlin didn’t elaborate on where he was from, and Briar didn’t push.

“I liked your music,” she offered instead. “You’re very talented.”

Tamlin smiled, a warm, shy smile as if he weren’t used to compliments. “Thank you. I haven’t been able to play in a while. I was worried I’d be rusty.”

“Not at all. Why haven’t you been able to play?”

He paused, as if considering how much to tell her. “The work I do is exhausting. And boring. It’s not fun to talk about.” That only raised more questions, but Briar was too polite to push him. “I’m curious about you, though.”

“Me?” Briar was taken aback. Nobody was curious about her. “Why?”

“You seem to be a normal village girl. But you smell like death.”

Well, she certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “I smell? Like death?”

Tamlin’s face drained of color. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way! You don’t smell, and even if you did, it wouldn’t be bad.”

Mother above, the awkward stammering was cute. “What did you mean, then?”

He spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. “It’s more of…an aura, that I can sense. Of blood. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m a butcher.” She decided to put Tamlin out of his misery. He was right, after all. She reeked of death. “I work with my father. We provide meat for this town, and all the surrounding villages.”

She understood why Tamlin would be surprised. She was a frail, willowy young woman. When she was younger, she had been prone to bursts of tears when she was overwhelmed. When her mother had been alive, her parents had run the butcher shop together. With that void in their lives, Briar had had to step into her mother’s place. She didn’t cry very much anymore.

“Oh.” Tamlin seemed relieved that he hadn’t insulted her. “You don’t like it very much.” A statement, not a question.

Briar shrugged. “I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it. It used to be harder. I used to dislike all the blood, and the dead animals. But I’ve gotten used to it.” The hundreds of rabbits and chickens she had skinned and dressed no longer phased her. Seeing them no longer made her heart ache for the life lost. Instead, they were her family’s next paycheck.

“I understand. I don’t much like what I have to do either.” He gave a shy smile that melted her heart. “You know I’d rather be a musician. What would you rather be doing?”

It didn’t take long to come up with an answer. “I like flowers.”

“Really?” Tamlin smiled again, bigger, with a flash of perfect white teeth. “Me too. You want to be a florist?”

“Not exactly. I like collecting them, learning about them. Finding the ways they are similar and different.” It was hard to explain her hobby to others. Most people assumed she wished to sell flowers, but that wasn’t exactly it. Her most prized possession was an encyclopedia of all the known plants in her area, divided up by their attributes. She had a notebook where she was making her own encyclopedia of sorts, filled with notes and drawings of all the flowers she encountered. “Right now I’m working on drying them out, so they can be preserved for longer periods of time.”

“What do you mean?”

It was easier to show than to explain. She pulled a leather folder the side of her hand out of one of her pockets. Inside was a small bouquet of flowers, dried and pressed and perfectly preserved between two panes of glass. There was no real reason that she carried it around, other than the foolish belief that someday she would meet somebody who cared about it enough to want to pay her to make more.

“It’s amazing,” Tamlin breathed, handling the glass carefully between his large, calloused hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Briar glowed at the appreciation for her craft. “I made that three years ago.”

“They’re perfect.” Despite the passage of time, the flowers hadn’t lost their color or shape. “How much do you want for it?”

Caught off guard by her fantasy coming true, Briar stuttered, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not really for sale.”

“Please, I would love to have it. Money isn’t a problem.”

Staring into his earnest green eyes only flustered Briar even more. “You can just have it, I don’t think it’s worth anything.”

“I can’t just take it, I have to give you something.” Seeing that she wouldn’t be swayed, he reached into his hair and pulled out one of the flowers. “What if I trade you for this?”

Briar accepted the flower. Despite her knowledge of local flora, she had never seen anything like it before. It looked like a pale blue rose, with silver leaves. The petals had a glossy iridescence and appeared to change colors as she shifted it back and forth in the low light. “What is it?”

“It’s a rare flower, from my home,” Tamlin explained. “From my mother’s garden. She loved flowers too.”

Briar caught the past tense in his wistful words, and conceded. “Very well, I’ll trade.”

Tamlin beamed at her. He carefully wrapped up the pressed flowers and slipped them into his tunic. “I’ll take good care of them for my journey home.”

It sounded like he was preparing to go. “Are you leaving?” Briar found herself saddened by his loss. “The festival continues all night, all the way into the morning. I’m sure you could find somewhere to spend the night.”

“Thank you, but I must go. I have people at home expecting me.” Tamlin rose to his feet, and Briar followed suit. “Thank you, Briar. Talking with you has been a gift I will cherish. Apologies again for my clumsy small talk.”

“No need to apologize.” Briar gazed up at him, taking in all of his features. He really was a beautiful man. She had never seen anyone like him before. “Do you think you’ll come back?”

Tamlin leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I think I will,” he murmured into her ear. Before Briar could embarrass herself by begging him to stay, he was gone. She blinked, wondering if Ric had spiked the cider again. There was no sign that the fiddle player had ever been there, except for the exquisite rose cradled in her hands. She made her way back to the main part of the festivities, all of her attention on her gift. It was only when she bumped into someone else that she broke out of her reverie.

“Sorry,” Briar said to the young woman with silver bells on her wrists. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“All is well, sister,” the woman bobbed her head in greeting. “May the—” she cut herself off as she caught sight of the flower in Briar’s hand. Her eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

“Someone gave it to me,” Briar answered, uneasy. “Why?”

“Tis a fae rose,” the woman breathed. “Nothing like it grows in the human realm, and it can only be picked by a High Fae.”

“But he…” Briar’s head spun. Her mind replayed everything that had happened that evening. Tamlin’s musical talent, his preternatural grace and beauty, how he claimed to sense the death that followed her like a dark cloud. Could he really be a High Fae? He had appeared human, but everyone knew that faeries were capable of disguising themselves, pulling the wool over naive mortal eyes. Everyone also knew that fae were wicked, deceitful creatures, who did nasty things to the humans they encountered.

Tamlin hadn’t been wicked. He had liked her. It was impossible to reconcile what Briar knew of faeries with the sweet man who had kissed her on the cheek.

The woman boldly hooked her arm with Briar’s elbow. “Come with me, sister. Tell me everything that happened. It sounds like you have been gifted with a visit from the High Fae. Are you familiar with the Children of the Blessed?”

“No.” Briar was taken in by the woman’s calm confidence. She clearly knew more about the fae than Briar did. And maybe she knew a way for her to see Tamlin again. “Show me.”

“Very well.” The woman lead Briar through the festival to a small group of others clad in pale blue robes. They greeted Briar warmly and gasped when she showed them the flower. They welcomed her into the fold, called her “sister”. She was home.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #brilin #briar #tamlin #briar/tamlin #fanfic #my fic #HERE U GO MY LOVE I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!!!#in which tamlin is the reason briar joined the children of the blessed

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qeyond · 1 year

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Beyond…..dentist…..please…..I am decomposing

"oh the decor? I actually did it all by myself, can you tell? I took a color theory course in college."

The framed photo is actually from his own personal collection! He thought adding the motivational posters and the "rest in peace" would help calm patients. :) He's very proud, please don't be rude.

#qeyond sucks #beyond birthday #death note #rest in pieces more like #hes like 'theyre health posters i thought theyd fit perfectly!'#it took me a while to think of what I could do for this request and i thought of the #color theory childrens hospital meme and i knew #i just knew he would have that #I also considered something along the lines of naomi going in for a check up #and it being B and hes sooooo excited to see her and she is absolutely horrified #'u put your hands anywhere near my teeth and ill round house kick your face'#anyway hes actually a dental surgeon and takes the teeth home :))#anon i hope this is what you wanted :3 #hes actually very good but he enjoys it a bit too much #thus the 'collection' of giant teeth photos #hes a professional!! he can have framed art!!#nothing weird here!!#also his crocs are in sport mode so he can catch up to anyone that bolts #he explains to them when he catches them that he knows color theory might be new to some people but its real :)#it works :) red is calming :) a very calming color! :)#also do not talk to me about perspective i hate her i did 3 years of design college before i decided i would rather die in a glue trap #q art

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giantkillerjack · 1 month

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Uh-oh! You are like, SOOO awkward!!

You're so awkward that it is occasionally mildly uncomfortable for people!

You're so awkward that sometimes people are confused by you and then there are awkward silences!

You're so awkward ...... that ultimately no one is harmed!!

Oh damn!!! What a vile crime you have committed! What an unforgivable thing it is to make a fellow human briefly confused!

Why, if *I* were ever briefly confused and kind of uncomfortable as a result, I'd be devastated.... by the absolute net zero change in my happiness and health! - From which I might never recover!! Yes indeed! No punishment can ever be enough for you!!

So you better absolutely hate yourself for it.

Better be SO MEAN to yourself about every single missed social cue so you don't forget your horrible crime! Meaner than you'd ever dream of being to someone else for the same thing! This is YOUR responsibility!

You need to show the world that you KNOW you are bad by punishing yourself constantly! After all, think of all the people who BENEFIT from you punishing yourself! - No, really! Think about it! Think about who benefits from your pain.

Think of alllllll the definitely-good people that your definitely-necessary self-torment definitely helps! I mean, you can't just cut off their definitely-life-sustaining supply of your suffering, right?? Sure, everyone else has a breaking point, but you're probably the only person in human history who doesn't, right? Best not to question it probably. Sure, it's a symptom that billions of people with trauma have had, but who knows? You could be a one-in-seven-billion exception. Anything's possible!

Instead, better just accept that idea that bullies carry like guns in holsters - the idea that people who have trouble with social cues deserve to suffer. Better carry on the burden they placed on you until you drop. Aid the cause of the callous by enforcing shame and suffering upon yourself extra hard; try your best to do their work for them. They're very busy.

Better not recognize that you need patience and kindness to heal from your trauma. Better not find out that it was trauma rather than personal weakness filling your head with self-hating thoughts. Better not find out it wasn't your fault.

Better not find out that awkwardness is not inherently harmful or unkind, and, in fact, the people who act like it is *are the ones enacting harm and being cruel.*

Better not get righteously angry when you realize just how much unnecessary damage this has done to you. After all, if you get mad, you might realize you deserve better. You might even feel brave enough to DEMAND better! You might build boundaries that keep you safe! You might make other people think they deserve to feel safe too! And we obviously can't be having that, so...

Better not show yourself even a little kindness a little bit at a time.

Better not make a habit out of it after all that practice.

Better not get confident.

Especially if you can't first wipe out every trace of awkward. (And you probably never will. Because people who experience absolute social certainty at all times tend to be insufferable assholes that enforce the status quo. And you just don't have the stock portfolio for that.)

Better not be confident and awkward because then you might confuse and delight people

- you might accidentally end up making other people feel less shame for their social difficulties

- you might make isolated, traumatized, and shy people feel like they deserve to be included in social situations

- you might even make them feel they can be themselves around you

- you might start loving the effect you have on a room

- you might enjoy conversations more

- you might forgive yourself and bounce back from shame more easily and frequently

- you might come to enjoy some of those moments of harmless confusion you cause because NOBODY expects the Confident Awkward, and that can genuinely be an advantage in social situations

- you might stop apologizing so much.

- you might find that socializing is like a video game: it requires practice but also a safe space for it to be fun and positive.

Or if you can't become assertive and confident, better not remain awkward and shy and quiet, and then love and forgive yourself anyway!

Why, it would be carnage!!

In either scenario, you run the risk of finding out that it's not your fault that safe spaces full of kind people can be really hard to find, create, and nurture. You could end up building a skillset that helps you do those things if you're not careful!

If you start giving yourself even the tiniest amount of grace at a time, you will find that you've accessed a gateway drug with extreme long-term side effects:

- You might realize that it was never your fault that it took so long to like yourself.

- You might realize that you were always worth talking to, even when you didn't like yourself and communication felt impossibly difficult.

- You might realize that you'll still be worth talking to even if communication becomes harder as you age and/or experience disability.

- You might come to know that you deserve to be heard even on bad days when words come slow and blurry.

You might discover that you were always deserving of kindness, first and foremost from yourself.

So. As you can see, it's FAR too much of a risk to start granting your awkward self free pardons for your many heinous and harmless crimes. Better to just leave it there.

#social skills #i have a few posts now in my ' social skills' tag #original #maybe eventually I will compile them and polish them in some meaningful way. I know what I want to call the book title #in big text it'll say 'I'M AUTISTIC' and then beneath that in smaller text 'And I Have Better Social Skills Than You'#or something to that effect. and the cover of the book will be me making an exaggerated smug face like the little rascal I am #challenging the viewer to pick up the book and see if they can prove me wrong.#and then the entire first section of the book is about how actually the issue with our society's social skills is the harsh judgment #for people who have trouble communicating and not the other way around. I don't actually think I'm the #most charismatic person in the world by a very long shot. but i do know that I have put more thought into my social skills than #most allistic people and frankly i have surpassed most of them. not because i am more persuasive or smooth or funny #(tho i am persuasive and funny lol) but bc i have questioned which social functions are more restriction than utility.#and instead i have focused my energy on actively learning how to make people feel safe. i feel social rules would benefit all people by #being a little more autistic tyvm. i don't think every person should dedicate themselves to being better at communicating #i think people should dedicate themselves to being kind and patient to everyone regardless of their ability to communicate #I think our society wrongly links communication ability to intelligence and intelligence to level of humanity.#when in fact all three of those things are fucking unrelated and connecting them inevitably leads to #really fucked up views on disabled people that hurt us. and then with that aspect of the book firmly understood and established I would #go on to recommend some ways to make socializing easier and more fulfilling (and less shameful and terrifying) for all kinds of people #it wouldn't be a book about Leaning In To Succeed in Business or 'here's how to avoid being the awkward loner at a party'#it'd be a book about how if you see someone alone at a party here's how to invite them to join your group without pressuring them #stuff like 'hot tip! if someone takes a while to type or speak a full sentence - talking over them b4 they can finish makes u an asshole!'#I know that a lot of people cannot or don't want to dump a lot of skill points into socializing like i did and they shouldn't have to in #order to experience basic dignity and respect. if we treat people like that then we just validate that people - especially #autistic children and elders and disabled people of manu varieties - have to suffer unless they learn all these arbitrary bullshit rules #and a lot of them are arbitrary bullshit! one of the reasons I throw people off so much is because I harmlessly break a lot of social rules #but I know I'm doing it and I'm not ashamed and people just don't know what to do with that! but a lot of them like it actually!!#i think it's a relief to be around someone so openly and unrelentingly weird bc what am I gonna do? judge you for being weird??#I only care if you're kind. not necessarily 'nice' or passive. Kind. Brave enough to care about people being treated well. Kind.#also I recognize that at least some of my ability to be openly weird is white privilege so that's important to acknowledge too

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